Ah! if I could have left him Robert Hall, instead of those execrable Typhons! But would that medicine have suited his case, or must grim Experience write sterner recipes with her iron hand?
CHAPTER XLVII.
When I got back, just in time for dinner, Roland had not returned, nor did he return till late in the evening. All our eyes were directed towards him, as we rose with one accord to give him welcome; but his face was like a mask—it was locked, and rigid, and unreadable.
Shutting the door carefully after him, he came to the hearth, stood on it, upright and calm, for a few moments, and then asked—
"Has Blanche gone to bed?"
"Yes," said my mother, "but not to sleep, I am sure; she made me promise to tell her when you came back."
Roland's brow relaxed.
"To-morrow, sister," said he slowly, "will you see that she has the proper mourning made for her? My son is dead."
"Dead!" we cried with one voice, and surrounding him with one impulse.
"Dead! impossible—you could not say it so calmly. Dead!—how do you know? You may be deceived. Who told you?—why do you think so?"